Return To Winterfell
by Saltrova
Summary: For so long Sansa had dreamt of home ... of Winterfell.
1. Chapter 1

In a second her breath was gone. It was as if time had been suspended while the noise around her diminished and everything else dimmed. She was here. Winterfell. She had dreamt of home for so long. Saw it in the snow at the Eyrie. Tasted home when she ate meals and instantly remembered the meals that used to be prepared for Winterfell's numerous feasts.

So many emotions pulsed through her. The overwhelming need to weep, to scream, to laugh, to run around Winterfell's grounds and reconnect herself with the home of her childhood where her family had thrived. The memories crashed over her in overpowering waves. And in the background of those memories, she could hear her family's laughter.

She was home. But it wasn't really home. Not anymore. Winterfell looked like a shadow that failed to hold a flame to its former glory. The fury that overcame her at the ruin that had become of her once proud and thriving ancestral home nearly brought her to her knees. It was a rage that she could not quell.

Petyr sensed her mood as he exited the carriage and came to her. "It's okay, sweetling. All good things will come in due time. This is the first step towards taking back what is yours."

Sansa closed her eyes as his words washed over her. He was right. It wouldn't do to leave a poor first impression with the Boltons and risk dooming her plans before they were implemented. She inhaled and exhaled, then repeated the process again for good measure. When she opened her eyes, her Alayne mask was firmly in place. Alayne who couldn't possibly be emotionally affected by Winterfell, for she had never laid eyes on this place before.

Alayne coolly took in the view as she and her father were led into the courtyard of Winterfell. The courtyard was bustling with activity as people went about their daily work. The castle was in the process of renovations which it was quite in need of. In the center of the yard, the Bolton lord, his family, and their household had lined up to greet their guests as was tradition. Alayne was led to Lord Bolton who stepped forward with a dispassionate air.

"Lady Sansa, welcome," was his simple greeting. His indifferent gaze coolly took her in while seeming to dare her to reject his hospitality.

For a moment, Sansa rose to the silent challenge and screamed within her to be let out so that she could claw at her brother's murderer. The betrayer of her lady mother. But Alayne forced her back under the wall erected by calculated logic and tireless planning. Sansa's emotions could not be allowed to get in the way. Alayne allowed a serene smile to cross her face. "Lord Bolton," she greeted, dipping into a curtsy.

"May I introduce my son? Ramsay Bolton," he finished as he stepped aside to allow the two to make their acquaintance.

Alayne's gaze landed on the quiet dark haired guy that stepped forward, a shy smile on his face.

"It's an honor to meet you, my lady." He laid a soft kiss to the back of her hand.

Alayne gave a nod, and as he straightened, his eyes met hers.

The chill that hit her was unexpected. There wasn't any visible threat in his eyes, but there was something hiding within their depths that alerted her and gave her pause. Perhaps it was madness that glinted so wildly out at her, but she couldn't be sure. Whatever it was, she must discuss it with her father.

Alayne kept her composure until they made it inside the castle. Once they stepped inside, she couldn't hold Sansa back. The trembling took over her body as Sansa rose to the surface, her emotions unchecked.

Sansa could have wept as she stepped inside that stone castle. It was almost as if the years had melted away and she was a child of 13 living safely at Winterfell. If she ran up to her old bedchamber would it still be the same? Would the ghosts of her slaughtered family haunt the halls? Would she catch a whisper of Bran and Rickon laughing and Baby Rickon scampering out of sight on ghostly little legs? She almost wished it.

She followed the maid servant to the chamber that had been assigned to her. _How odd,_ she thought, _that I am being assigned a bedchamber in my own home._ Sansa looked around the familiar room. It wasn't one that had been occupied by any of her family back in the olden days. And perhaps that was best. Maybe the memories would hurt less. But how much they already hurt. To be here in a home that wasn't really home. To be the only one trying to keep alive the memory of a once proud house that was now dead. The remains scattered in the wind.

"I'll bring you a bowl of hot water," she heard, as her mind returned to the present. "You must want to wash."

"Thank you," Sansa dutifully replied, finally turning her attention to the old lady that had accompanied her to the chamber.

The old lady looked around cautiously, before lowering her voice to a whisper. "Welcome home, Lady Stark. The North Remembers."

At once Sansa was comforted. _I am a Stark,_ she reminded herself. _I will be strong like Robb._

After her bath, Sansa was dressed in a new baby blue gown that played up her dazzling Tully blue eyes. Her auburn hair was brushed until it shone and seemed to come alive, glowing as vibrantly as a red hot flame. Her cheeks were pinched until a pretty blooming red surfaced in them. Courtesy was a lady's armor and she looked every bit the lady. She was ready to face the Boltons.

Sansa was escorted down to the Great Hall, the guest of honor to a feast that had been thrown in honor of her impending marriage to the younger Bolton. Her eyes searched out Petyr and relief washed over her when she caught sight of him. He gave a nod that signified his support and she took a deep breath. She was the picture of a well bred highborn lady as she sang the pretty songs from her childhood. Greeting lords and ladies, executing a delicate curtsy when needed, laughing softly, and putting everybody at ease. Everyone was enchanted by her except the two Boltons whose eyes never seemed to leave her.

Roose remained seated with an impassive expression. It didn't make any difference to him if she was aware that his attention was honed in on her or not.

Sansa wasn't sure if he approved or disapproved of the way she had carried herself throughout the feast. But she knew that she had been on her best behavior so he shouldn't have cause for complaint.

Ramsay on the other hand seemed to sulk. The more everyone was drawn to her, the darker his mood grew. But one wouldn't be able to tell by looking at his face alone, for he kept his expression pleasing. But the evidence of his mood was found in the dark storm swirling in his icy blue stare.

When the feast was finally over, Sansa made time to have private words with Petyr away from the other guests.

"You did so well, sweetling," he complimented, laying a quick kiss to her lips. "You won everybody over like I knew you would. You have made it clear to the Boltons how imperative your presence is in order to have the North on their side."

Sansa was pleased. "I was frightened at first," she admitted.

"But you did it. And that is all that matters. Now comes the tougher part. Wooing the Bolton boy. Ramsay. You must wrap him around your fingers just like you did with the Northern lords and ladies."

Sansa hesitated. "I saw something in his eyes that worried me," she broached.

"It is very smart of you to be worried," Petry confirmed. "Ramsay is more than he appears. But this is just more fuel for you to use to take back your home. I will continue to seek him out and converse with him, but it is vital that you charm him. Stroke his ego and get him to open up about himself. Use whatever that you learn to your advantage."

Sansa nodded. "I will."

That night as she slept under the furs in her bedchamber in Winterfell, she dreamt of the old days. She dreamt of her real home in which Father, Mother, Robb, Bran, Rickon, and Arya were alive and well. Even Jon Snow her bastard brother. Even him. He was family too. She dreamt of innocence. Days spent playing snowball fights with Arya and the boys. Whispering and giggling with Jeyne Poole. Sewing to her heart's content under the approving gaze of Septa Mordane. And when Sansa awoke, it was with the taste of promise in the air. A promise to reclaim all that was lost. A promise to restore Winterfell to its former glory.


	2. Chapter 2

It was arranged for Sansa to take a stroll with Lord Ramsay the following morning. So she was woken up early, bathed, oiled, and dressed in one of her new gowns, before quickly being led down to where Ramsay awaited.

"My lady. How good of you to join me," he greeted, as he kissed the back of her hand.

"It is a pleasure, my lord," Sansa returned.

His eyes gleamed at her, again inducing that curious chill. "How are you enjoying your stay at my castle?" Ramsay inquired.

Sansa's breath caught in her throat for a second at his possessive claim of Winterfell. But when she stole a look at him, his expression appeared guileless. Save for his eyes. That glint remained.

As she pondered how to reply, the silence grew. Finally she stated, "I was fortunate to have lived in this castle as a child. I had many happy memories here and I could only hope to create more after we are wed."

There was quiet tension for a few seconds and then he smiled at her. "A fetching reply, my lady. I can only hope to bring you more happiness."

Sansa lowered her eyes demurely. But inside her head she replied to his statement with a resounding, _You cannot._

"Would you like me to give you a tour of Winterfell? You may enjoy seeing the improvements that my father and I have made to the castle," Ramsay declared.

Sansa maintained her composure, refusing to fire the scathing reply that sprang to the tip of her tongue. "If it please my lord," was the reply she settled for.

"It does," he confirmed. He gently grasped her arm and stirred her back towards the castle.

Glee was evident in his face as he guided her floor by floor, making sure that she was aware of every alteration made to her childhood home. When the tour was completed, he turned to her as if to gauge her reaction. There was an intensity about him that unsettled her.

"You and your lord father have certainly paid homage to House Bolton. Were the renovations inspired by the Dreadfort?" Sansa interjected smoothly.

Ramsay flashed her a cunning smile. "If it was truly inspired by the Dreadfort, there would be torches mounted to the walls clutched by the skeletal hands of our flayed enemies. There would be a torture chamber which I would take great joy in showing you. And..." he drew closer until his lips made contact with her ear. "I would introduce you to House Bolton's pride and joy. The trophy room in which we display the flayed skin of those who cross us."

There was a satisfied smirk on his lips as Sansa gave an involuntary shiver. She was grateful when Petyr appeared in the room as if on cue.

"Lord Ramsay. Lady Sansa," he greeted pleasantly.

"Lord Baelish," Sansa readily responded, a smile blooming across her face. She felt a sudden pain in her upper arm as Ramsay's clasp seemed to momentarily tighten into a vice-like grip. She winced and her brow creased in confusion as she looked at him.

He immediately appeared appalled at his seemingly unintentional action. "An apology, my lady. I had a tick," he offered, politely bowing and then seeing his way out.

Petyr immediately made his way to her side. "He is jealous. He already likes you."

"Do you think so?" Sansa replied absently, not knowing how the idea of Ramsay liking her made her feel.

"Look at you. Who couldn't adore you? You're the most beautiful lady in all of Westeros," Petyr voiced.

Sansa blushed, not sure if she believed it, but appreciating the kindness.

"What is your take on Ramsay? Was your morning with him well spent?" Petyr wanted to know.

Sansa filled him in on everything Ramsay and her had discussed since she left her chamber. "I don't have a final judgment," she concluded. "I think he tries to be a good person but he is a Bolton after all. His father is a cold man and Ramsay is influenced by him... so perhaps kindness does not come naturally to him."

"Does that frighten you?" Petyr asked.

Sansa thought about. "It would frighten me more if he didn't make an effort to be kind."

Petyr smiled and pressed a kiss to her forehead.


	3. Chapter 3

After breaking fast the next morning, Sansa was left to her own devices as Petyr and Lord Bolton went off to have a private discussion and Ramsay excused himself from the Great Hall shortly after. She didn't mind. Sansa immediately hurried to her chamber to don a cloak and then she rushed back down and slipped out of Winterfell's doors. Her feet automatically making the familiar journey to the godswood. She sat under the great weirwood with the face carved into its bark and closed her eyes. For a second she could picture Father sitting under the tree sharpening his great sword Ice.

Sometimes Mother would join him, although she didn't worship the Old Gods. Sansa was comforted sitting beneath the weirwood tree that had stood in this same spot for centuries, listening to the prayers of generations of Starks. She felt a connection with her father. With her family. With the true Winterfell of the old North. "Father," she whispered. "I'm sorry." And then she wept, her body wracked with bitter sobs that told the story of her deep anguish. She soon collapsed into an exhausted slumber.

She dreamt of another godswood. This one in Kingslanding. The night the raven had brought the news that Bran had awoken from his endless sleep, Father had taken her and Arya into the godswood where they had prayed for hours. Or at least Father had, as they knelt in front of the great Oak that had served as Kingslanding's Heart Tree. Sansa had greeted the moon by falling asleep and her dreams had been filled with her little brother Bran, just as her earlier prayers had been. When she woke to the early light of dawn, she had whispered to her father, _I dreamed of Bran. I saw him smiling._

Sansa awoke from her sleep feeling a sense of peace that she had not felt in a long time. She made her way back to the castle, grateful for a morning of solace in the godswood. She chose to spend the rest of the day sewing, appreciating the further comfort that it provided her. When she was called down to supper, Sansa arrived in the Great Hall with a smile on her face. Today had been a soothing day, and she could only hope for it to remain that way.

Conversations around the supper table remained pleasant for the most part until Ramsay who had appeared withdrawn for the majority of the meal suddenly locked his eyes on hers. "You look dashing, my lady. I find myself waiting impatiently for the wedding."

Sansa's cheeks heated up as she momentarily glanced down at her plate. "Thank you, my lord. You are too kind," she murmured.

"Are you looking forward to the wedding?" he pushed.

Sansa looked up at him. There was turmoil looming in his eyes, and as she ripped her gaze away, she felt a touch of fright.

At her silence to Ramsays question, Roose's attention turned to her. His empty eyes seemed to bore into hers. "The old North is dead. I am the Warden of the North now. Yet the Stark name still holds a great influence. Your marriage to Ramsay will unite the old North and the new North and bring peace and unity to this land." He stared at her expectantly.

"I will do what's best for the North," Sansa appeased. But she knew that what was best for the North included dead Boltons.

Roose's eyes studied her for a few seconds more before they dismissed her and he returned to his meal.

Ser Dontos' words from years ago floated through her head. _These Tyrells care nothing for you. It's your claim they mean to wed._ She had later realized the truth in his words when she had been forced to marry Tyrion. _Tyrell or Lannister, it makes no matter, it's not me they want, only my claim._ And now she silently added Bolton to that list. It was only her name that they cared for and its influence, Roose had cemented. Sansa held no illusions about love. She would enter this union eyes wide open.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa hadn't been down to the crypts since she arrived in Winterfell and so that was the first thing that she escaped to do after a busy morning. She had loathed coming down here as a child, now she sought the company of other Starks, even if they had been dead for years. She was drawn to her aunt Lyanna's statue. Sansa stood in front of the marble replica feeling sorrow for the young girl that had died when she was 16. The same age she currently was. Although she would be 17 in a few moons time. A woman grown.

"I thought I might find you here."

A voice broke through the silence, startling her. She turned around to find Petyr approaching, a contemplative look on his face.

He stopped next to her, facing the statue. "Your aunt Lyanna," he observed.

"Father never talked about her," Sansa reflected. "Sometimes I would find him down here lighting the candles. They say she was a great beauty."

"I saw her once," Petyr said.

She turned to him in surprise.

"I was a boy living with your mother's family. Lord Whent held a great tourney at Harrenhal..."

Sansa listened in captivated silence as Petyr recounted the events of The Tourney at Harrenhal. She shivered as he conveyed the shocked silence when Rhaegar Targaryen rode past his wife Elia Martell and placed a crown of blue winter roses in Aunt Lyanna's lap, naming her his queen of love and beauty.

Petyr turned to Aunt Lyanna's statue as he finished his narrating. "How many tens and thousands had to die because Rhaegar chose your aunt?"

Sansa huffed. "Yes he chose her… and then he kidnapped her and raped her."

It was silent for a moment and then Petyr took hold of her gently, "Come," he said, "let's speak somewhere the dead can't hear us." He led her further away from the statues of the cold Kings of Winter and beautiful Lyanna.

"You're dressed for riding," Sansa noted as they walked.

"I am," Petyr acknowledged.

"Where are you going?" She was curious.

"Kingslanding," was his reply.

"Kingslanding?" Sansa repeated sharply, turning to face him.

"Cersei sent for me. We mustn't let her sniff out any trouble," Petyr reminded.

"You can't leave me here." Sansa was shocked.

"I know how it is to live with people you despise, believe me. But it won't be for long," he soothed.

"How do you know?" she demanded.

He told her of the impending battle between Stannis Baratheon and the Boltons. "A betting man would put his money on Stannis," Petyr finished.

Sansa wasn't comforted. "What if you're wrong?" she pushed.

"Then you would take this Bolton boy, Ramsay, and make him yours," Petyr instructed. "He's already fallen for you."

Sansa was anxious at the prospect of being under the care of the Boltons without Petyr there to offer support. Alayne quickly came to the rescue. She observed the situation and maintained a cool head. Lord Ramsay was not as cold as his father. As long as she continued to oblige him and remained pleasant and agreeable, there wasn't any cause for him to ire. He had been polite to her thus far.

"I'll return before too long. You'll be strong without me," Petyr encouraged.

Alayne confirmed his statement with a nod.

Petry leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. "The North will be yours," he promised as he broke the kiss.

"I expect I will be a married woman by the time you return," Alayne mused.

Petyr gave her a smile that she couldn't quite decipher and tipped his head slightly in acknowledgment before taking his leave.

And as she watched him walk away, her Alayne mask crumbled, leaving a vulnerable Sansa behind.


End file.
